


Flames

by BloodyAbattoir



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Burning to death, Burns, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Future, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Immolation, Mercenary Lucio (The Arcana), Past, Past Lives, Past Violence, Pre-Red Plague (The Arcana), Red Plague (The Arcana), Suffering, major arcana - Freeform, no happy ending, present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: The room is on fire, you are on fire, there is nothing but flames. You are nothing but flames, you are the fire, you are a scream no human should make, you are nothing but ash and regret.
Kudos: 12





	1. Past

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. So. Got this stuck in my head after reading that Lucio is canonically a pyrophobe after his death. I mean, who wouldn't be? Also, it's a bit saddening to hear that while he (apparently?) doesn't remember much before his death, he does remember dying. Enjoy whatever this is. 
> 
> (Oh! And for anyone who saw the tag of graphic description of violence, it's not quite 'violence' in the sense of interpersonal violence, but more situational violence/graphic descriptions of him being burned. Felt like I needed to add an additional warning because some people apparently don't read tags.)

You let out a callous laugh, thrusting your lit torch against the wall of the tent. It goes up in flames in a heartbeat, the cotton catching like the wick of a candle, the singed smell of it filling your nose, wrinkled in disgust. Even so, better to smell burning fabric than to smell the blood and death around you. No matter that you'd grown up in a warring tribe, no matter that you'd spent your entire adult life as a mercenary, killer for hire, you'd never grown used to the reek of the dying, the foul stench of blood that had spilled and congealed. 

You look around you, taking stock of the damage you and your 'team', if you could refer to them as such, had done. You'd struck in the dead of night, when the enemy army was guaranteed to be asleep, attacking ruthlessly. Most of them never even had a chance to fight back, slaughtered in their sleep like common animals, and of the few who had been alerted by the death knells of their fellow brothers-in-arms, they stood no chance, cut down within moments. After that, it was mere formalities, sacking and raiding what little valuables were in this miserable outpost before torching it to the ground, a cruel message to the troop stationed several miles west, waiting for backup that would never arrive. 

The final tent sufficiently ablaze, sending plumes of stinking smoke into the sky, you mount your horse, signalling to the others to do the same. At the edge of the horizon, there were the faintest streaks of light appearing, your cue to return to your base and if you were lucky, sneak some sleep before you were assigned another mission. If you were very lucky, that handsome doctor with the lanky long legs would be awake, and perhaps, if the gods smiled upon you, would humor your poor attempts at flirting.

As you ride into the rising sun, you congratulate yourself on another job well done, the casual banter between yourself and the other men who had accompanied you on this foul deed mere background noise, familiar as ever. What wasn't familiar, however, was the way that the stench behind you wasn't fading into the background as it should be. There was no wind blowing, nothing that should have made it continue to fill your lungs, choking you, growing stronger by the minute.

Something was wrong.


	2. Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Lucio is burned alive.

The stench of burning fabric filled your nose and throat, making it near impossible to breathe without gagging. The little air that you can inhale is so hot that you can feel it burning the tiny hairs in your nostrils. You may as well be breathing in straight fire at this point. 

Your eyes are watering so hard that it's a wonder that you manage to open them at all. When you finally force them open, you almost instantly regret it. The world has dwindled down to nothing but shades of orange and red. No matter which way you turn your head, there is nothing more to see than fire. Tongues of flame lick their way across your room, across your bed, reducing them to dust and ash that rains down upon you like an infernal snow. 

Even as you struggle to push yourself onto your elbows, you aren't certain whether you're sweating as a side effect of the plague, or from the inordinate heat in this room. It's almost like being cooked alive. No, it _is_ being cooked alive, as by now, the fire has reached your bed, the very sheets that you lay wrapped in catching like tinder. You let out an aborted shriek as you feel your skin grow hot and red, attempting to thrash the sheets off your weakened body to no avail.

Your skin blisters and your lungs feel like they've been set alight as you struggle to leave your sickbed. You'd feared that you'd die in this bed, but you'd always thought it would be from the plague, not from being burnt alive. Not for the first time, all your regrets swarm over you, your mistakes dancing behind your eyelids. This time, however, you know that it's going to be the final time.

As your skin blisters, and chars, you know that you won't survive this. 

Through your open bedroom door, you can see the Courtiers, Valerius included, standing in the hallway, watching you roast alive. Valdemar has a massive grin stretching their face grotesquely, and you could almost swear that you hear laughter above the sounds of your own screams. You wonder why they aren't helping you, why they're reveling in your agony. 

Finally, mercifully, it all goes black. 


End file.
